"unwed" poems
summertime is here and flowers bloom
but inside my ghostly heart there is only gloom
because you're in love with my dreams
when the doors are shut and the curtains are closed
yet late at night i still yearn for you across the bay
in this much too-large bed i lay
desperately wishing you were *****
wait, no-
that's not it
i just wish that my side was the one on which you'd sit
i want you to sleep in my bed
i want to put him out of your head
i want it to be my baby in your crib
i want your third finger to wear my ring
i want you to be able to give me your everything
do you know what i want more than that?
i want to erase him from existence
i want to rub out the last five years
like chalk from a chalkboard
and start anew with you
i want to pick up where we left off
with you waiting patiently for me
hanging on my every word
as though they were the sweetest sounds you've heard
like honeysuckle or roses or poppies
or daisies
but no
you loved me too
well guess what? i love you
no past tense
no "too"
i love you
everything i do
every breath i take
every time my hands shake
every smile i wear
oh, that's my cross to bear
the ***** the banter, the banquets, the bands
my darling dear, it's all for you
don't you see?
why can't you understand
the part of my plan
where five years just disappear
this house is too big for only me (lonely me)
i should be laying next to you
but all i have is this green light
i close my eyes but it's tattooed inside
i wish i could put that thing out of my sight
but when you're laying in his bed
at least i still have my green light
to give me solace at night
lovely lady, i'll follow your lead
i learned to do that in the war
no matter how far
you have my heart
just promise to hold it dear
and for the rest of my days
i know i will have no fear
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 7:01 PM UTC
You, upperclass, American feminist
Will you please shut up about a sandwich?
And comic book characters, supermodels
Shut up about your first world problems
And take a look somewhere,
Where the idea of feminism Is actually needed
Have you ever heard of an arranged marriage?
It's common practice in other places,
Right after puberty, as long as the ******* are there
11, 12, they don't really care
See the life of a Nepali girl, lower-class,
Lack of freedom
Learn about the meaning
Of the word
kamlari
Young Nepali slave girls
Beaten and bruised,
Not allowed to be ill
Or
*Jogini,
Devadasis*
Which are both from india
Dedicated to a goddess at as young as as five
To bring the family good fortune
The tribes girl, forever *****
But with nightly visitors in her bed
They're hoping for some of her luck
To rub off on them
Sumangali
dalit girls
Sold by their family
For next to nothing,
It's called "bonded labor"
And is supposed to pay off debts
But the trap is set
The girl is caught
And if the "bonded labor man"
Feels she isn't of enough use
Maybe she's been beaten or is a little too ill
He sells her off to another man
Supposedly to pay her hospital bill
So yes, feminism is needed
But not here you little heathen
Shut up about your so called freedoms
And help the ones so desperately need it
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 1:05 PM UTC
******* child born from ***** parents
***** female dog, wolf, etc.
Men are called ******** and women are called *******
So with that in mind- I’ll put this into verse and rhyme.
There was a ******* named Bill, who would walk
His ***** named Jill.
Now she would love to lay or play
And this would go on every day.
Then when his ***** would go into heat
He would give his ***** a treat.
He would allow her to put her scent all over town
So that the others would know that she’s around.
Now Bill being a fatherless child- would sit around and laugh awhile.
(With the definition of these words being known) I must ask this!
Why would you put your ***** on the street?
When there are so many others she’s bound to meet.
She will leave you in a flash, because she doesn’t need
Anyone to wipe her ***
there has to be a line of respect
don't you know this yet ?
YOU are fatherless and what are you about to do
Is creating a litter just like you.
So why do we use these words as profanity?
That is not the way it was meant to be!
HA HA ENJOY YOUR DAY
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 12:24 PM UTC
Which Is Greater?
I break a vow.
A serious vow.
In a place, in this site,
Where the fluid pain
Is the water of the world,
The element that is crux,
The amniotic liquor of creative flux,
The morning juice,
The afternoon caffe,
The first beer of the day,
The liquid that we rinse and spit out our every day,
I will write about pain,
Arrogantly, as if there is any unused combination of
Letters, vowels and consonants left unspoken, *****
Having sworn not to, for pain is cumulative.
Asking myself,
Which is greater?
The pain of creation, inception, origination and birth,
The pain of wreck and ruin, destruction and death.
Homework Self-Assignment: Compare and Contrast
Suddenly, I am expert.
Creating a poem a day is very painful.
A poem that is the sum of
Reflection, research, and purging.
Once I wrote:
*The poem is the afterbirth,
A conflicts resolution, an outcome,
Battlefield debris, the residue of
An exacting vision, a sentiment surging,
And your army of words, inadequate to the task,
Fighting to capture that insight flashed,
Each word a soldier, disheveled,
Crying, let me live, let me be saved,
Let me make a poem,
Let it be inscribed upon my victorious flag.
The poem is the sweat left upon the brow,
Having exercised the five senses,
The salt of struggle and debate,
It's completion, each word,
Both a victory and a defeat.*
Suddenly, I am expert.
My mother is dying.
It is a process. Days pass,
She neither eats or drinks,
Yet she lives on.
I watch each labored exhalation,
A subtraction, a countdown,
It is as if she was returning each singular day,
Every word e're spoke, every dream dreamt,
she ever possessed to the atmosphere,
One breath at a time.
Is that painful?
It is for me.
Now you complain. They're different, not to be compared, et cetera.
Pain is pain,
Whether it is in the service of creation, or
Creative destruction.
Once I wrote:
*With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poem's birth diminishes me.*
So, one and the same?
Nope. Yes. But. Cannot one be the greater?
Yes, one is greater.
When I lay on my deathbed,
I will exhale the answer
Into the atmosphere
For your retrieval.
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 7:06 PM UTC
Grandma's hands clapped in church on Sunday morning.
Grandma's hands played the tambourine so well.
Grandma's hands used to issue out a warning,
She'd say, “Billy don't you run so fast,
Might fall on a piece of glass,
Might be snaked there in that grass,”
Grandma's hands
Grandma's hands sooth the local ***** mother
Grandma's hands used to ache sometimes and swell
Grandma's hands used to lift her face and tell her,
She'd say, “Baby Grandma understands,
That you really loved that man,
Put yourself in Jesus' hands.”
Grandma's Hands
Grandma's hands used to hand me piece of candy.
Grandma's hands picked me up each time I fell.
Grandma's hands, boy the really came in handy
She'd say, “ Mattie don't you whip that boy.
What you want to spank him for?
He didn't drop no apple core,”
But I don't have Grandma anymore,
If I get to heaven I'll look for
Grandma's hands.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 6:56 AM UTC
I wonder 'oo and wot 'e was,
That 'Un I got so slick.
I couldn't see 'is face because
The night was 'ideous thick.
I just made out among the black
A blinkin' wedge o' white;
Then biff! I guess I got 'im crack --
The man I killed last night.
I wonder if account o' me
Some ***** will go *****
And 'eaps o' lives will never be,
Because 'e's stark and dead?
Or if 'is missis damns the war,
And by some candle light,
Tow-headed kids are prayin' for
The Fritz I copped last night.
I wonder, 'struth, I wonder why
I 'ad that 'orful dream?
I saw up in the giddy sky
The gates o' God agleam;
I saw the gates o' 'eaven shine
Wiv everlastin' light:
And then . . . I knew that I'd got mine,
As 'e got 'is last night.
Aye, bang beyond the broodin' mists
Where spawn the mother stars,
I 'ammered wiv me ****** fists
Upon them golden bars;
I 'ammered till a devil's doubt
Fair froze me wiv affright:
To fink wot God would say about
The bloke I corpsed last night.
I 'ushed; I wilted wiv despair,
When, like a rosy flame,
I sees a angel standin' there
'Oo calls me by me name.
'E 'ad such soft, such shiny eyes;
'E 'eld 'is 'and and smiled;
And through the gates o' Paradise
'E led me like a child.
'E led me by them golden palms
Wot 'ems that jeweled street;
And seraphs was a-singin' psalms,
You've no ideer 'ow sweet;
Wiv cheroobs crowdin' closer round
Than peas is in a pod,
'E led me to a shiny mound
Where beams the throne o' God.
And then I 'ears God's werry voice:
"Bill 'agan, 'ave no fear.
Stand up and glory and rejoice
For 'im 'oo led you 'ere."
And in a nip I seemed to see:
Aye, like a flash o' light,
My angel pal I knew to be
The chap I plugged last night.
Now, I don't claim to understand --
They calls me Bonehead Bill;
They shoves a rifle in me 'and,
And show me 'ow to ****
Me job's to risk me life and limb,
But . . . be it wrong or right,
This cross I'm makin', it's for 'im,
The cove I croaked last night.
2.7k
A pregnant lass with eyes of glass has never learned to cope.
Once set adrift her fall was swift, she slid a slipp’ry slope -
She casts the Curse, the Holy Verse, and shoots a shot of dope,
And stalks discreet Asylum Street her daily horoscope -
The stray was struck by random truck which was her only hope.
Well, Banjo Boy, with little joy, he strums her life entire:
“The wayward waif was never safe; her stars were dark and dire.
Born midst the rues and avenues where lack and want aspire
Where no one heeds the childish needs that little ones require;
Where faith survives in tempest lives, a swirl within the briar,
Infinity grinds as time unwinds, until the winds expire.
Her last caprice? The final peace that no one could deny her -
Whipped by the flood, stray beads of blood are spattered on the spire;
Though beads of sweat are cool and wet, cold clotted blood is dryer.”
Though broken there, she’s fled the snare with dying thoughts serene.
And now she’s dead, the rumours spread: “her age? a sweet 16,
With child, ***** her soul dyed red, her body so unclean.”
A place is sought where she can rot, avoiding churchyard scenes,
In limey pits, as well befits, behind forbidding screens;
And all the while a dirge is styled on tattered tambourines
Which echo through the human zoo in valleys of the Queens.
Without rejoice, in hissing voice, near soil that’s seldom trod
“In pious role, God bless my soul”, was mouthed with mitred nod,
Neath scarlet trim with black, and grim, behind a robed facade -
“She’ll burn in hell and sulphur smell”, spat Priest and man of god.
Well, angels sweet with cloven feet, they sing in girl’s attire,
But Banjo Boy, he’s playing coy while chanting in the choir:
“The clueless search within the church to find what they desire -
Beyond the nave, a gravelled grave, the final Rectifier”
And when he’s through, without ado, he stacks some stones nearby her.
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 8:07 AM UTC
we're such a benevolent lot
we give the Welfare set
our hard won dough
they sit on their *****
and do not a thing
while we're out working
for a wage
but our kindnesses
are being exploited
by the dole collectors
those ***** mothers
having broods of kids
and we hand them
our toiling quids
those kids
should be supported
by their daddies
let them get a job
and become
responsible
for their sprog
the Welfare system
is getting plundered
every day
by those who won't
get out and earn their pay
how nice
our honey *** has been
taken for granted
and bled of its generosity
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 7:25 PM UTC
poeter poetess
poetee I must profess
there's more and more
with less and less
implore explore
impress express
ignore deplore
digress obsess
undress unless
ogress
poeti poeted
the only thought
inside your head
your life is fraught
with constant dread
the dreams you sought
all dead all dead
***** unread
unsaid
poeto poetum
no fee no fi
Jack run run run
oh me oh my
another one
won't satisfy
don't be no fun!
poem poem
poem
©2012 Lyn
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 4:54 PM UTC
( Written as a rejoinder to my friend's poem: "Poem written to a buxom young Lady")
You’re very tall
And painfully thin.
Your bust and waist
the same.
Your voice is high
and pitchy.
To hear it causes pain.
Your wardrobe,
much like Superman’s,
lacks all variety.
You’re an unfit
***** mother
you’ve neglected
poor sweetpea.
Yet two men
battle over you.
It strikes me
a little strange.-
but in your cartoon universe
You are the only game.
I think I’d side with Whimpy
And watch the others fight.
I’ll gladly pay you Tuesday
for a hamburger tonight.
May 19, 2012
May 19, 2012 at 11:18 AM UTC
America needs a poor, ***** mother for president.
We need a Muslim for vice president and a feminist to lead the army.
America needs a homeless man with no health insurance and AIDS to allocate food stamps,
gays to run the senate, and lesbians to run the house.
America needs a president who’s been shot at,
*****
and ****** on his whole life.
A person who has held their dying child,
losing a battle that cancer has already won,
buried up to the knees hospital bills.
America should be run by a person that wakes up every morning with no heat or air conditioner.
Who has fought in a war,
shakes in the night,
and lives on minimum wage.
Someone who takes the bus, the subway, and owns one pair of sneakers,
There is no time or money for anything else.
We need an inner city teacher for president.
Someone who spends 4 hours on Sundays preaching for president,
Just to go home and put on his wife's dress.
America needs a straight talker and a street walker to head the FBI.
An illegal for the CIA,
And a transgender for the DOJ.
But that will never happen.
What I have realized is that there is no longer a distinction between what is right, and what is real.
Real, is a leader is one that has been to the free clinic,
waited in line at the DMV,
and buys clothes from Walmart.
Real, is a president that is no stranger to violence.
A vice president who has been to county.
That has been fed jail food,
strip searched,
and wasted years that they will never get back.
We, the people do not fly around in private jets,
Puffing on Cuban cigars.
We, the people do not solely consist of old, rich men,
Making decisions for young, poor women.
Telling us what we can and can’t do.
Who we can and can’t love.
Widening the gap between the haves and haves nots.
We the people know hard work,
We know blood,
We know sweat,
We know tears,
But what we do not know,
Is how to engage ourselves in the goings on in the world around us.
Take responsibility,
hold your own,
and question everything.
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 6:31 PM UTC
_For as the curtain rises,
So too the curtain falls,
No accolades, no entourage,
No 'Brava!', no applause.
An unrehearsed performance,
By a monodramatist,
A solo show, a pantomime,
An improvised burlesque.
Critics stand in groups debating,
The value of my work,
They gossip in the aisles,
The playhouse now a kirk.
My eulogy their invention,
My obituary the prize,
The best review I've ever had,
A mix of humour and soft lies.
I have played the loving daughter,
The honest aunt *****
The independent sister,
The true and loyal friend.
The sympathetic neighbour,
I have played the errant niece,
The mentor, guide, and confidant,
The ***** and the tease.
In truth, I am a diva,
Living mostly in her head,
But this remains unmentioned,
In a tribute to the dead.
Once rose bouquets beribboned,
From the greatest and the good,
Now a solitary arrangement,
On a coffin made of wood.
For as the curtain rises,
So too the curtain falls,
No accolades, no entourage,
No garlands, no applause.
But wait, I see my error,
As indeed these things exist,
But not for me to comment on,
Nor as I would have wished.
For my aspect is fair frozen,
I cannot turn the page,
My performance has now ended,
And I have left the stage._
Sep 14, 2020
Sep 14, 2020 at 3:51 AM UTC
I'll miss the day we were crawling down main-street at 4 a.m
after we slept in the guest house and danced to CCR.
Tossing our beer cans in the neighbor's trash,
and singing with every molecule of our bodies
at the passing train
that deafened us from 20 feet away.
We ran wild beneath the overpass,
climbing the engines lying dormant on the tracks,
pretending we could fuel them up
ride across the nation in a rusted box car
write our names between the colors of illegible graffiti
and shout against the wind as we rolled through the hills.
And what a shame we didn't chase that passing train the way we could have.
What a shame we didn't let it carry us away
with nothing but our flannel jackets
and cut off shorts,
the lighter in my pocket,
and the thirst for a nice adventure.
We sauntered back to the diner,
exhausted by the scenery and faces,
our buzzes vanishing to the neon signs
of bars, seven bars on one street,
and the smell of coffee
as the elderly hobbled in with the morning paper
clutched between arthritic fingers.
Tomorrow, and everyday after,
a train will pass through town at 4:45 a.m.
and I can hop on the caboose any day I desire.
Each birthday slithers by,
flicking it's tongue in my direction,
tasting my youth.
And I glance again at the disintegrating old man
sitting alone in the window booth
wearing the face of a jailed old bird
with clipped wings and the grievous expression
of an ***** gent.
He would pass one day,
leaving a dusty, crumbling shanty to his children,
a box of crinkled newspaper clippings full of obituaries,
and an empty seat in the booth by the window,
where someday I will collapse in the a.m.
take my coffee black
and cut my husband's name from the paper,
wishing I was on that train
shedding this loose blotchy skin
for the rough hands I had
the day I chased the engine to the edge of town
and regretted the moment
that I turned around
and came home.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 5:44 AM UTC
*****
or something in between
left in humming office space limbo.
You're no fun at all when the USB is USE'd up with ease.
White mouse tail rendered down the pilot of my palm and left me with
paranoia disease.
Natural glow, vanished visage
unnaturally slow, famished instance
ebb and flow, iambic finish
fail to show the lavish grimace.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 7:05 PM UTC
I close my eyes
and the world drops dead
the cold pierces
my skin with sharp lead.
And your words hit me with a slam
and all I did was just bled and bled
It was all just made
up in our heads.
The sheets that once laid
across OUR bed
Now just contain one of each
and my arms reach for you, outspread.
I ponder and question why
did you stop and fled
Why couldn’t we just understood
after all that misread and misled.
Now my fingers crawl
and they tread on the loose threads
All there is to do is to hope
and to look ahead and miss the unsaid.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 1:09 PM UTC
I've listened to their speeches.
Read their termite riddled planks.
They're unlikely to dethrone Barrack-
A pity, Mitt is no Tom Hanks.
They are out of touch with women,
unsympathetic to the poor.
They're still fighting social issues
that were decided years before.
For a party of small government,
They sure have a lot to say
about *** in America
among the ***** and the gay.
The Democrats, by contrast,
Hit all the right social notes;
Indeed, they will say anything
if it will buy them votes.
Then, when we hit the fiscal cliff,
The Obamas living large,
I'm sure he'll find some Bush to blame
as long as he's in charge.
Election Day is coming soon,
Both parties seek my love.
Alas, my favorite candidate
is None of the Above.
Aug 29, 2012
Aug 29, 2012 at 6:57 AM UTC
“A lovely moon tonight” she said.
“It’s the same moon it was last night” he said.
“It looks slightly different somehow” she said.
“It’s exactly the same ****** moon” he said.
“I think it’s fuller tonight” she said.
“Of course it’s fuller tonight” he said.
“It’s brighter and gayer tonight” she said.
“The moon is no gayer tonight” he said.
“It seemed so sad last night” she said.
“How could the moon seem sad?” he said.
“The moon dies every night” she said.
“And ferries the souls of the recently dead,
Into the darkness just out of reach
It circles the globe unseen and *****
It pries open the sky at evening’s breach
The moon has been reborn” she said.
He gave her a look of scorn and dread
“What’s gotten into your head?”
“A lovely moon tonight” she said.
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 4:25 PM UTC
Swaying hair.
Brown wisps
Placating, Floating, Caressing.
The tiniest tinges of amber
Soft, soapy, strawberry
Little pints of pink
Swelling
Apple eyes
Blueberry skies
Brown, flickering
Fluttering eyelashes
Worn out pages
Crumpled copies
Crinkled, sprinkled, twinkled.
Swaying peach
Floating free
Specks of a lit red
Snowflakes
Coffees and Biro Pens
Messy scrawl and hasty chatter
***** nails, lips bare
Ears akin, smiles are not within
Late nights of films and English homework
Tattered textbooks, damp.
Gentle lift
Small, precise.
Danity and weighty
Nails afloat, teeth sunk in
Lips still bare
Eighteen.
Ribbons
Twisted Eyebrows
Bare lipped frown
Fear strikes
Brown wisps
Flicks of red
Pints of pink
Tattered copies of her death.
Unseen.
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 1:54 PM UTC
What a special day I had today.
So special, and it was not even mine.
The sun was warming.
It was God's wind blowing.
And for once, we all were there,
and all our love was showing.
And the children
in the day,
they were laughing, having fun.
And everyone was smiling.
It was all I ever I wanted,
and it was not even mine.
My sister.
It was her day.
And yet the sun could almost die,
but for the radiant Patricia
could keep any heart alive.
Immaculate,
in white and lace.
Enchanting. Captivating.
The gods above did fall in love,
but she shall keep them waiting.
Her husband.
It was his day.
He thanked us just because,
we were who we were,
and he was who he was.
He was genuine in his embrace.
Sincere in his smile.
There beside my sister,
he seemed to strike a certain style.
I knew they would be happy.
This love will last forever.
I could feel it in my heart,
and it was not even mine.
I saw my mother.
She was smiling with a tear.
My father sighed and shook his head,
perhaps somewhere in yesteryear.
Here, witnessing the true event
of what pain and sacrifice are meant.
Knowing in some way she's leaving.
But, in marriage, true believing.
I wanted to laugh as well as cry,
and it was not even mine.
My sisters.
They all did contest.
Competing with the bride.
Resplendent.
They did look their best,
I still cannot decide,
if it was they that looked more beautiful
or more the day
and all the view.
And as I looked around at wide-eyed guests,
I knew that they did wonder, too.
My brothers.
All so strong and cool.
Among the guests,
so sure to fool.
Of four, three of us still *****
We swear those words will not be said!
We congratulate.
We poke and jibe.
And yet we keep the truth inside.
We stop and think about our day.
We dream.
We hope its something like today.
I dream and sigh,
and want today,
though it was not even mine.
As we gathered for the photograph
I began to see my flaw.
This day that I had wanted,
it was no ones day at all.
For days that are this beautiful,
and this loving, I have learned,
are only lent to us by God,
and soon must be returned.
But we can take from it our memories,
and our dreams and friendships, too.
Patricia and Mike will take each other,
and a love that lives anew.
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 7:31 AM UTC
Colloquial examples of passion
Smoke rising lazily off the trembling waters
Skin soaked with the ethereal dreams of a thousand lifetimes
When I awoke, the night a moonless construct of infamy
Dreams are hungry, the nightmares seek
Artful expression which crashes downwards
The many beatings of a heart
Cold and scared
A smattering of thoughts
Void and *****
Callously sold to the empty hands of yesteryear
In corrupted frame, coiled rage
Another image bound and bled
New notes left unfettered or fed
Pulchritudinous, what was once a face
Since traded, since displaced
Hollow and ashen
Soul sacrificed to make space
Elements of fire and air
Clashing internally
Fluid motions, beckoning out to the few
Clutch thy mystic purse
Burn said embers anew
Dearest hollow, the waters tremble
The cold dark sings as the bonfire waivers
Bide your strength, close ashen eyes
Sip from holy estus
Summon or head on
Push through the fog wall,
Prepare to die
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 3:17 PM UTC
Lost
I have found
Chords of Pathways
Home Again
Confusion of Disconnection
Swimming
In a Fish bowl
of Empty Desire
With the Worlds Eyes
A Peering Landscape
Dissecting Innocence
Of Youths Dreams..
Offered escape
By an Eagles Beak
Of Death
I choose it
And saw the World
In the blessings
Of Its Beauty
Children on playgrounds
That I never had
Lovers in friendships
That I knew awaited
Revealings of Gods Word
I was ever called To say
Heart Lifting Beauty
People from everywhere
Majesty of Life
The Grace and Joy
Of Goodness
........ Pergemome
Loves Hope
Unjudged
True Wealth
Once Held
Suddenly Taken
Family
God
Ministers Robe
Decisions Stole
Mind
My Beloved Freedom
My Lover
I seek
For this Walk
Gods Heaven
This Earth
Life
Sharing
Minds Eye
It is that which I seek
Home Again
One Voice
One Heart
Wonder
That I Am
Blessed Courage.. Faith
Lifes Eternity
Joy,
Loves Eternity
Bliss
....My Brother Called..
His name was Sorrow
They called him
Satan
His Love
A Mothers Love
It is She
Who Sits with Him
To Know Faith
His Fathers Coming
My Brothers Hand
Lifted
Vietnam
He
Cried
Forgotten
And
Unknown
A Homeless Boy
A n Unbirthed Man
Creator of Life
With Song *****
His Rememberance
Now
Reclaimed Presence
Volunteer,
Innocence Of The Yes
Murdered Creation
***** Indignity
A Prison
Of
Unbecoming
Our Tears
His Witnessing
And Freedom
Absolved of Knowing
Victory
Meant more
Than Life
For No One
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 12:08 PM UTC
A boy and a girl
Laying in bed
Ever so sweetly
Touching is their heads
They confess their love
True soul mates they are
And swear never to leave
Whether too close or too far
The girl looks at the boy
And says why can't we wed
The boy replies money is the reason
Theyre ***** in this bed
The boy has an idea
One that will make her blush
And show her she is more
Than just a childhood crush
The boy goes into his closet
Brings back a piece of string
Cuts a sliver off and
says "can this be your ring"
And in that moment
Where magic danced in the night
They became newly weds
As he tied the string on tight
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 5:53 PM UTC
The life has left her eyes
her body, has left its ties
no matter the cries
His life has ended
with the saddest demise
Floor stained red
thoughts rush to her head
The darkness spreads
Herself left
*****
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 12:06 PM UTC